


Your Hands

by Flurry_X



Series: Nurmengard Castle Tales [4]
Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Explicit Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Minor Albus Dumbledore/Gellert Grindelwald, Post-Movie 2: Fantastic Beasts: The Crimes of Grindelwald, Power Imbalance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-11
Updated: 2018-12-11
Packaged: 2019-09-16 05:09:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,007
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16947606
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Flurry_X/pseuds/Flurry_X
Summary: "He had told himself it couldn’t happen again, the stickiness of their bodies together, the tenderness. Had told himself it was a mistake, that he knew better by now, not to trust the warmth of two bodies together, not to believe it meant something.But the boy looked so sad, so broken, tight and frail like an old rope, barely holding on. He could see it in his eyes, the shame, the desire, the struggle between them tearing him apart. And every inch of his own soul remembered how it felt, the want, the sorrow, the doubt. And he needed to fix it for him, to reach out and pull him out of those deep waters and into him."____Standalone one-shotWhere Grindelwald teaches Credence how to use his handsGrindelwald POV





	Your Hands

**Author's Note:**

> Read this on Tumblr:  
> "So. I need a grindence nsfw where Grindelwald asks Credence not just accept touches but touch him in return, telling him what to do, guiding his hands with his own, praising him and enjoying him."  
> Tried to write a short, smutty, OS  
> Ended up writing this long, angsty, smutty, OS  
> \-----  
> Standalone one-shot  
> Where Grindelwald teaches Credence how to use his hands  
> Grindelwald POV

The forest was silent and majestic around them, tall trees swinging gently in the wind, white mountains in the background, making it feel like they were both surrounded and isolated at the same time. The boy was practicing a simple spell, the line of his mouth tensed tight in concentration, his arm contracted in an uncomfortable position.  
He kept struggling with wand movements, his shoulders always too tense, his fingers gripping too tightly.

“He does better when you’re not around, you know?” the Goldstein girl had told him once “he’s… nervous around you, he wants to impress you” she had said, like she was revealing a secret. But there was no secret, he knew how much the boy longed to prove his worth to him, he could see it in the way he would glance back at him, almost rhythmically, double, triple checking, making sure he was watching, making sure he approved.  
It emboldened him, made him feel like the boy lived and died by his words, and that’s exactly where he had wanted him. On a string dangling from his lips, that a quick movement could have cut him off, made him fall into darkness.  
There was no weapon more powerful than someone ready to die for you.

“I can’t I can’t I can’t. So useless” he heard, a vicious whisper interrupting his thoughts, almost undetectable under the noise of the wind through the tall pines.  
The boy clutching the wand to his chest, rocking back and forth a little, picking at the skin on his wand hand, leaving small red marks all over it, his eyes glazed over and distant.  
The cycle of abuse so deep inside him that he didn’t even notice when he was doing it to himself.  
The sight of it moved something inside Grindelwald, tugged at the tender flesh hidden somewhere deep inside him. That flesh bled for the boy sometimes, for his brokenness, his torn soul. The feeling would rise inside him in waves, anger and tenderness, wanting to reach out and fix it, wanting himself to be the one who put it back together, and wanting to be the one who destroyed it once and for all.  
For it was unfair of the boy, so unfair, to stumble through life, so exposed, so naked, so fragile, that anyone could have reached out and hit him deep, right where it hurt, and he was hurting everywhere, he was exposed everywhere. Every corner of him, his eyes, his skin, his heart, so scarred and so scared and yet defenseless, open.  
He felt grateful for the presence of the obscurus inside him then, the physical representation of everything the boy hadn’t been allowed to be; powerful and unstoppable and dark, so dark.

“Shh… My boy, come here” he said, reaching out, stopping that painful hateful rant of words.  
The boy obeyed, walking towards him, his head bent low towards the grass.  
“I’m sorry, I- ” the boy stammered “It’s my hands, they just don’t work.. I don’t know how to.” he finished, his eyes glazed over in shame, his palms twitching, getting ready for a punishment that nobody was going to deliver.  
It filled him with such pitch black anger, to think that the boy could only think of himself as lesser, wrong, a freak who would never measure to expectation. Such was the doing of muggles, taking someone so bright, so promising, and turning him into a wrecked mess. He hated his mother for it, hated all of them for it, for him.

The boy was now breathing faster, and he could feel the agitation mounting inside him, feeding his obscurus, like a dark heat emanating from his thin body. His long fingers now twisted and red, picking and pinching his own skin, making it bleed, punishing himself.  
He saw his own hand reach out and cover the boy’s, and it almost caught him by surprise. The suddenness of it, the gut reaction, the unspoken need to protect him, even from himself.  
Their hands fit nicely together he thought, aware of the weirdness of such a remark, but he couldn’t help himself from noticing they complimented each other well. His own, so pale and aged, but strong, and the boy’s, scarred, thin, and young.  
He felt him jerk a little and lose his grip on the wand, his whole body reacting to the sudden touch, like he expected a blow, not a brush.  
The boy’s heart beating so fast now he could feel in the spaces between his fingers.

“Let me show you” he said, his own voice sounding raspy and strained to his ears, as he bent down to pick up the discarded wand.  
He stepped behind him, offering the wand again, letting him gasp it tightly, then curling his own fingers around the boy’s.  
The space between their bodies was now so thin even the wind struggled to fit between them.  
“Follow me” he said, as he moved both their arms in a tight swirl and then down, fast, through the middle.  
He repeated the motion over and over, the boy’s hand warming up inside his, his muscles relaxing into the motion, learning it, letting instinct take over, the magic inside him reacting to the stimulation like a curious animal.  
“Good. Now say it” he whispered right into the boy’s ear, so close that his short coarse hair tickled his nose, so close that when the boy shivered he shivered too.

“Incendio” the boy said, tentative, uncertain, his voice broken.  
“Louder.” he intimated, now reaching out to squeeze his hip from behind, tight, like he was trying to transfer his own powers through his skin, so close that his chest now touched the boy’s back, and everything felt warmer, heavier.  
“Incendio” the boy said again, this time louder, almost shocked into reaction by the surprise of their bodies colliding. A strong and powerful jolt of flames shooting from his wand, from between their hands, wild and roaring.  
The boy skirted back a little, surprised by his own strength, crashing into his chest, his eyes wide and entranced by the flames now swirling wild, consuming a pile of dead leaves.  
“Again” he whispered, his hand slipping from around the boy’s, dropping low, to grab at his hip, keeping him centered, controlled.  
He felt the boy's muscles tensing and flexing and then melting into the motion, owning it.  
“Incendio” he roared, deep and clear, and flames shot from his wand again, now purposeful, stronger, him watching them spiral and coil at his feet, hypnotized by his own spell.

The boy lowered his arm slowly, flames dwindling to sparks, his body mellowing out once more.  
He didn't move once it was over, didn't detach himself from the cocoon of their bodies together. His black eyes were glued to the fire, the flames growing taller, consuming the forest soil in front of them as he watched. Orange and red and black smoke, the heat now growing closer, lapping at their skin, and the boy didn't move. Shadows from the flames chased each other on his face, making his features look harsher, powerful. A dangerous kind of beauty.  
He stood tall, the line of his jaw so tight and so enticing, his chest rising and falling fast, stretching his shirt, his shoulders straight and broad, and he looked menacing, dangerous.  
And in a flash he saw everything the boy could grow up to be, he saw everything they could be together, unstoppable and fierce and unbreakable, towering tall over the bodies of their enemies.

It filled Grindelwald with a sudden and heavy warmth, spreading from the center of his chest and down, the vision of this sad boy, so bold now, so strong, owning the space like he belonged there, in his forest, in his castle, in his arms.  
He looked like a ghost from the past, his past, like a tangible memory of another boy, powerful, innocent, and so so close.  
He couldn’t stop desire from coiling in his belly, warm and prickly, like the flames in front of them. Hungry, like it wanted to devour everything in his path, the trees, the forest, the boy, his own ghosts.  
He strained forward, just a little, his nose now almost touching the boy's neck, smelling his scent mixed in with the smoke, cloudy and intoxicating. Wanting to sink his teeth into his flesh, to own him, to mark him, so that he would be his, and nobody else’s. Wanting him to never leave, never betray him.

He retracted his hand from the boy's hip when the flames got too close, forming a bubble of protection around them, not wanting to put them out, wanting to keep looking at the boy's face in that soft, warm light.  
“You, my boy, you did that” he said softly, pride dripping from his words, one hand still on the boy’s hip, his lips inches from his ear.  
The words seemed to break the hypnosis the boy was under, as he recoiled in surprise and lowered his head again, folding his body down in a familiar motion, like he was ashamed, like he suddenly remembered to be small. But there was nowhere for him to hide, nowhere to run but into his chest, between his arms.  
He felt the boy tense against his body, like he was suddenly aware of how close they were standing, like he felt trapped. Maybe he was.

He gripped him tighter, breathing him in, feeling feral now. He could feel his fast heartbeat through his back, his heart slamming against the walls of his ribcage, as he kept still, frozen, like a prey waiting for him to pounce.  
He couldn't stand it, the way the boy breathed, so heavily, so fast, trying so hard to mask his desire and yet failing so badly.  
He wanted to scream at him, to _just reach out already, just give in boy, give into me_ , he wanted to say.  
But he didn't.  
He just watched him squirm and tremble, the lines of his body shaking with barely concealed adrenaline and lust, every inch of skin begging to be touched, longing to feel, but muted, unable to reach out.

He had been having visions of it, a lithe, pale body, all long and flexible limbs, twisting and turning, and coiling around him. The boy’s eyes, so black, so deep, not backing down but staring right back at him. First pleading then demanding. The boy’s hands, swift and tender, running through his skin, taking everything he needed, grabbing and caressing and exploring. The boy’s body, wrapped around his own, grinding against him, purposeful and shameless.  
They would sneak onto him, unexpected, whenever he let his thoughts wander. He would look at the snow on the mountain peaks and see the boy’s skin, so bright, stretched over his bony back. The wind would sound like his moans, breathless and desperate and loud. And he would be powerless, over and over, to stop desire from spreading through his body, making him long for that closeness.

He had told himself it couldn’t happen again, the stickiness of their bodies together, the tenderness. Had told himself it was a mistake, that he knew better by now, not to trust the warmth of two bodies together, not to believe it meant something.  
But the boy looked so sad, so broken, tight and frail like an old rope, barely holding on. He could see it in his eyes, the shame, the desire, the struggle between them tearing him apart. And every inch of his own soul remembered how it felt, the want, the sorrow, the doubt. And he needed to fix it for him, to reach out and pull him out of those deep waters and into him.  
He had learned early in his life that desire was for the weak and love was for the fool.  
Yet he couldn’t stop his body from reacting to the boy’s smell, couldn’t stop his hands from reaching out to touch his skin, surveying every dip and peak of his body, like it was his own personal kingdom.

He released the bruising grip on the boy's hip when the pull became too strong, his hands prickling, pins and needles of desire, to touch, to undress, to take.  
He slid his hand upward, under the boy’s thick coat and over his shirt, feeling his stomach squirming under this touch, following the line of the buttons, through his ribs, his chest, his throat.  
He let his fingers rest there for a second, putting pressure on the boy's neck, feeling the air coming in and out of his lungs, feeling the blood pumping through his veins, so fast. Letting him wonder for a moment if he was going to tighten his grip, choke the air out of him. Letting himself enjoy the thrill in knowing that if he had, the boy would have let him.

He let his hand fall to find the shirts collar again, now undoing it, the boy missing a breath every time a button popped open.  
He couldn't stop himself from revelling into the sound, innocent and raspy, over and over, button by button, till he reached the waistband of his pants.  
The boy was trembling, his breaths fogging up in the cold air, shivers of cold and desire ravaging his skin.  
He didn't unbutton his pants, even though the boy was straining against the fabric, and it looked almost painful. He cupped him from over his clothes instead, caressing him, feeling the warmth of him burning through his clothes. The boy grinded against his palm, his hips bucking forward instinctively, a desperate, needy moan escaping his lips. Wanting to be touched so badly, but unable to find the words, unable to ask for it.

He closed his eyes as he sank his face into the deep curve of the boy’s neck, inhaling his scent, letting himself fall into it. He wanted the boy to react, he wanted to feel his hands wandering all over his body, curios and inexperienced and frenzied. He remembered how it felt, how irresistible the call of his first lover’s body had sounded, like a siren, enchanting him to a sweet sweet death.

But the boy wouldn’t move, fear and shame anchoring him to the ground.  
He stepped around him then, moving slowly, circling him like a predator, a hand carelessly brushing over the hair on his stomach, until they stood face to face.  
“Give me your hands” he ordered, deep and unwavering. And the boy obeyed, trembling and uncertain, his hands shaking as they rose up between them like an offer.  
He grabbed his wrists, bony and small, his thumbs brushing lightly against the boy’s palms, reassuring, as he brought his hands right up to his face.  
He gently pried the boy’s hands open, splayed them on his own face, sweet and soft over his cheek. He saw the boy inhale harshly, his eyes fluttering closed, as he let his hands reach out and caress, tentative and unsure and wanting, like he couldn’t believe nobody was stopping him, like a worshipper being allowed to touch their god.  
“It’s okay” he whispered, as he dragged his hands over his mouth, breathing against them, wet and salty, leaving a shadow of a kiss between his fingers and revelling in the shiver that shook his whole body.  
He stood there, in the white snow, the flames the only source of warmth, letting the boy’s fingers survey every curve and dip of his face, letting himself fall into that careful touch.  
Closing his eyes, remembering another boy, his hands all over his body, in his hair, passionate and loving and welcome.  
And he wanted them both, the boy from his past, an equal, always matching passion with passion, blow with blow, and this boy, _his_ boy, scared and warm and trembling, and nobody else’s.

He let the grip fall from the boy’s wrists, let his hands find the warm dip of his back, pulling him into him, bending his neck to touch their foreheads together. The boy’s hands still on his face, his elbows digging into his chest, their breaths fogging in the cold together, like they were breathing from the same lungs.  
He could feel his own heartbeat speed up, matching the boy’s, control slipping away from his tight grasp. Could feel the boy’s lips parting, so close against his own, and his mouth must have been so dry, his breath so warm, and he wanted to feel it for himself, push his tongue inside and taste the very essence of him.  
But he knew the boy wasn’t ready, and maybe he wasn’t either.  
He growled against the boy’s lips, as he bent lower, reaching out to bite just under his jaw instead.  
The boy’s body jolted against his in pain and surprise, his eyes wide and pleading, and it took every inch of restraint he could muster not to take him right there and then.

He spun around instead, his back now flush with the boy’s chest, mirroring his own stance from before, needing to hide his eyes from the boy’s before he did something he would regret.  
“Undo it” he said, as he reached out to grab the boy’s wrists again, raising them to his shirt.  
The boy’s hips bucked against him a little, his breaths warming up the nape of his neck from behind. “Go ahead” he encouraged him again, tightening the grip on his wrists, pushing his fingers right against his own chest.  
The boy took a shaky breath and then started unbuttoning the garment, slowly, like he was unsure if he was allowed, tucking every button in carefully. So careful not to brush against his skin, not to look at it, even as the shirt fell open more and more, exposing his chest.  
He stopped when he ran out of buttons, trembling, unsure.  
“I- I don’t know how to” he heard behind him, a broken sentence, whispered right against his neck, the boy hiding his face into his back, trembling.  
“Shh..” he reassured “Let me show you” he said, as he prompted him to undo his pants. And the boy did, his fingers trembling and fumbling as they reached from behind.  
He didn’t release the boy’s hands then, a craving so strong, so deep, to be touched, to be worshipped. He pushed them further instead, shivering when the boy’s thumbs tentatively caressed his navel, then down, to his groin, between his legs.  
He could feel the boy’s breaths wet on his neck now, his hips jolting frantic into his back, his hands shaking as he let himself be guided through places he had never explored.  
It was a singular and spectacular pleasure, to be the one who introduced him to it all, to be his master, his teacher, to be on the receiving end of all the desire the boy had to give into.  
He had to cover the boy’s hands with his own again when they reached the painful hotness between his thighs, his fingers too eager and too scared at the same time. He wrapped both their right hands around himself, helping the boy stroke him just the way he liked, letting him learn the rhythm, the slow dance of pleasure.

The sight of it, their hands together, wrapped around his own manhood, so strange and yet so familiar, so right, like the boy’s palms had been carved out for him and him only.  
“Such a good boy” he whispered in his ear, leaning back, letting one of his hands release the boy’s, raising it to the nape of his neck. The boy whined a little at the praise, like he was surprised by it, like he felt unworthy.  
“Shh.. my boy” he intimated “keep going, you’re doing so good.” and he could feel the raspiness in his own throat, could feel his controlled facade slowly chipping away with every stroke by the boy’s hand. He wanted the boy to not be sad, wanted to turn his shameful whimpers into passionate ones, wanted to take everything from him, strip him naked, and then be the one to give everything back, to cover his body with own, to envelop his life with his own.

He groaned as the boy tightened his grip, his hand now moving on its own, curious, passionate, sure. It was intoxicating, like a venom spreading slowly through his body, being touched like that, with purpose, with intention, like there was nothing the boy craved more than his body, than him. He wanted more of it, wanted it everywhere, and he didn’t stop himself when he felt his hand reach out to find the boy’s again, squeezing it gently, then bringing it up to his exposed chest, wanting to feel his fingers everywhere.  
“My boy” he murmured, as he guided the boy’s hand again over his own chest, and it felt like he was truly his, owned in every possible way a human can be owned.  
He had to stop himself from closing his eyes, afraid he would see ghosts in the darkness of his eyelids, afraid he would desire those ghosts again.  
He kept his eyes fixed on the sky above them instead, white and seemingly infinite, as the boy’s hands roamed wild on his skin, caressing, and grabbing, and stroking, aimless and yet focused. Feeling a primal kind of pleasure in being so exposed in the wilderness, like they were free of human burdens, like they were just animals acting on their deepest instincts.

His hips pushing faster and faster into the boy’s fist, the boy’s hips crashing into him, frantic and rhythmless, their bodies brushing and slapping and grinding against each other, rough and inelegant.  
“Tell me boy” he said, his voice breathy, raw “who do you belong to?” he asked. There was a pause, silent and loud, before the boy croaked out “To you, Sir” , like it was the only answer, like surrendering was an inevitability.  
He groaned then, his hand slipping behind him, to grab blindly at the boy’s body, finding his hips, sinking his nails in his backside, encouraging him to keep moving, to find his release.  
The boy moaned against his neck, pushing against him over and over, hard and deliberate, as he used his body to give himself the pleasure he craved. He felt him shake against his back suddenly, the waves of his release so powerful and still so foreign, as he held onto him, like he was scared, like he needed to be anchored down or the pleasure would have floated his whole body away.  
Only then he let himself go, rutting and pushing into the boy’s hand, watching himself release over his pale fingers, the most sinful and delightful picture he had ever seen, waves of energy ripping through both their bodies, amplified by their proximity, like they were sharing the same pleasure.  
And for a moment there were only the boy and the snow; no visions to be had, no ghosts to hide from, no worlds to conquer, the boy’s hands were the only thing that had ever existed, and their bodies together were the only bodies left on earth.

It didn’t last, fleeting and unreachable, and they were left behind, their bodies sticky, their hearts racing, their minds reeling, their hands still intertwined; standing in the forest, the trees guarding their secrets, their eyes finding each other, then slipping away, their bodies detaching, each running back to their own coldness, knowing there was a place they could always come back to, stripped and raw and truthful.

He didn’t say anything when it was over, it felt like words would have shattered the silent synchronicity of their bodies together. He stood silent, catching his breath, and suddenly he felt the boy’s hand reaching out to brush lightly against his navel, his thumb caressing the skin slowly, briefly, by his own volition, his touch tender but purposeful.  
He smiled then, knowing the boy had found his hands, and that they would always be his to enjoy.

**Author's Note:**

> I honestly don't know if anyone will actually be into this thing I'm putting out, but I really really hope it does make some sense to someone other than me! I just loved that image and really wanted to write about it and it turned out like this.  
> Please please please, make a needy writer happy and leave a comment if you enjoyed it!  
> I am definitely continuing this series and would love to get ideas/suggestions for it, so let me know! =)


End file.
